


Swept Under The Rug

by J_Baillier



Series: On Pins And Needles [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Caretaker exhaustion, Depression, Friends to Lovers, Guillain-Barré syndrome, John putting the foot down, M/M, Major Illness, Mental Health Issues, POV John Watson, Rehabilitation, Sherlock in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 22:22:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13867224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: A missing scene from between The Breaking Wheel and On the Rack. John needs to deliver a disappointment.





	Swept Under The Rug

**Author's Note:**

> ShakespeareLovedLadyMacbeth is to thank for this. You probably didn't think your comment would turn into a prompt...
> 
> The [main page of the series](https://archiveofourown.org/series/581221) contains information on the full chronology of the fics that belong to it.

 

John puts the large plastic bag provided by Mrs Hudson on the floor next to Sherlock's bed, then pulls out the contents. He's come in earlier than usual since he's going to work later after having said yes to his first locum shift in months. The agency had called him yesterday.

Recognition is instantaneous. Of course, Sherlock would know his own, beloved coat. But, the joy of reunion John had been expecting barely gets a foot in the door before Sherlock averts his gaze back to the cold case files on the tray table.

Sherlock still spends most of his time in his bed at his single room provided by the expensive private Nuffield Ward at The National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery; even sitting up for any length of time leads to muscle cramps and worsens the exhaustion that drags down his shoulders and makes him take an unholy number of naps throughout the day, especially for a man to whom insomnia had been a vocation rather than an ailment.

"I can't carry all of your stuff here on Tuesday, and I thought you might like to pop outside for a bit, get some fresh air."

"I'm sure my imminent incarceration in the countryside will provide toxic amounts of that."

John hangs up the coat in the closet. Once it's out of sight, Sherlock closes the tattered folder he'd been browsing through. Finally, John gets the smile he has grown used to but will never tire of.

After their first-ever frank conversation about how exactly they feel about each other, Sherlock has changed. Before, Sherlock's admiration of him had been reserved, polite and only occasionally crossing of what would be the usual level of staring between friends. It has made him realize how carefully Sherlock controls what others are allowed to see of the real him.

John would never want to go back to what was before.

It's still the early days. When it comes to touching, they don't quite know how to go about it. Now that their communications are no longer dependent on constant physical contact, crossing certain boundaries does not feel any easier than before. John knows he's welcome, very much so, but there is something fragile about the way Sherlock seems to care for little else than his presence these days. Being that important, and since even Sherlock's moods seem to closely follow his own, he doesn't want to disturb the peace by doing something that might be confusing.

"Have you picked a hotel, then?" Sherlock asks. He's stretching his right wrist; his long fingers are ramrod straight, pressed against his other palm and being bent slightly backwards.

John frowns. "What hotel?"

"Make sure Mycroft puts you in a good one. He may assume that, based on your army experience, you will not complain if he places you in some abhorrent inn. There are several outstanding former country houses turned into hotels in Essex."

John is confounded. This is the first time Sherlock has taken up his imminent departure from hospital. All other conversations have been initiated by Mycroft. John feels slightly guilty for letting the older Holmes handle the obviously touchy subject of inpatient rehabilitation. Then again, John had been the constant present at Sherlock's bedside during the worst of the GBS. Perhaps Mycroft thinks it's his turn to carry the weight, now. "They said that if I come over for a weekend there are guestrooms at the manor available." 

"What do you mean, ' _if'_?"

"Well, it's a long way away. Of course, I'll visit, but---"

"You won't come with me?" Sherlock is doing nothing to hide his shock.

"I need to go back to work, and----"

"No, you don't. Mycroft will sort it out. He'll be perfectly happy doing so since it liberates him to run his one man shadow government in peace and quiet. Stop being polite and quaint and whatnot and call him to sort this out."

John sits in his usual chair.

Sherlock shifts around half a circle so that his legs are hanging down from the side. His gaze is challenging, commanding, inviting no arguments. "Your phone is in your left trouser pocket. Get it out."

John swallows. "Sherlock, I can't stay there with you."

"Why the hell not?" Before John get an answer in, his gaze narrows and his right hand curls into a fist. "This has Mycroft written _all over it_. I'm disappointed you would take orders from him."

"The Harwich people don't think it's a good idea."

"They don't know me. _You_ do. I'm not putting my life on hold just because some so-called professional who is most obviously an idiot thinks banishment to the countryside without any sensible company is somehow beneficial."

John catches the reference of Sherlock's life effectively equaling their relationship, and smiles. "It's not like we're in a hurry. Remember what you said to me: that you didn't want to talk to me about all that until you could do so at your own terms and on the mend. Shouldn't you apply that principle again?"

"We already had that conversation. After a mutually acceptable resolution to it, I do not want to waste any more time."

John realizes that it would probably be funny, from an outsider's perspective, the circumspect way they're discussing all this. But, they spent two years pretending such talk was never going to be necessary, and old habits die hard.

Sometimes, especially when alone at 221B, he still can't believe it. It feels like he must have imagined it all: kissing Sherlock. Being told that the things he had been trying to suffocate and hide were reciprocated in full.

When Mycroft had raised the subject of Sherlock not being able to return straight home from the National, it had shattered the illusion Sherlock seemed to have been nurturing: that he would bounce back from this, that it would be a matter of a few weeks more at the National, and they could go back to chasing criminal down the streets. That they would walk out of here and continue their life together. John has known, of course, that this scenario is not realistic, but concern had stalled his tongue. Sherlock seemed so happy; happier in a more uninhibited manner than John had ever witnessed before. Maybe him leaving the whole rehab business to Mycroft had just been because he would have felt heartless pricking that balloon.

But it has begun to deflate. The last few days have shown a gradual descent into the same volatile moodiness that had characterized Sherlock's darker days before the illness. The way he hangs onto every moment spent with John is no longer constructive to his well-being.

Mycroft is right. John may hate that fact, and currently even hate the man a little as a consequence of it, but he is probably right.

Sherlock needs time, and he needs to focus on something else than denial and the two of them.

"You need to put in the work and doing that in a place that's apparently the best on offer is going to put you back on your feet faster. That's going to help with not wanting to waste any time," John points out.

 _'If you are present, all he'll do is either skip therapy altogether, or go through the motions waiting to get back to you. He will allow himself to be distracted and waste this opportunity,_ ' Mycroft had told him when they were having lunch at the Diogenes. John isn't sure why they hadn't talked about this at the hospital – that's where they'd had all the other serious conversations that excluded Sherlock. Maybe Mycroft needed a breather, too.

John would never admit this to Sherlock, but he is looking forward to the discharge, because he will get a breather, too. He doesn't want to spend time apart, of course, not at all, but for the past few months his entire existence has consisted of the hospital and badly slept nights at home.

Maybe they all needed to rest and regroup.

"It's obvious he's got to you," Sherlock snaps. "Now that the immediate danger requiring his presence is over, of course he wants to lock me up somewhere so that I'll not inconvenience him."

Even by Holmesian dramatic standards, the statement sounds exaggerated. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think?"

"You don't know him like I do." Sherlock's mouth is an angry line, and he lifts his legs back onto the bed, slumping against the raised head of it and crossing his arms.

 _Commence sulk_. John sighs. "I looked into it myself and talked to your neurologist. NHS spots have queues of months, which would waste some of the golden period of recovery. This place was spontaneously mentioned by several people as being a wonderfully effective place. Some of the other good, private ones are much further away." Although John is not privy to the details of Sherlock's finances, Mycroft has mentioned a trust fund and insinuated that the cost of a stay at Harwich Manor will not be an issue. "I'll visit, of course I will. I don't want to spend any more time apart than you do," John says pointedly, "but I want to get back to this---" he waves a hand between the two of them, "when we can do it in a way you wanted. I know you wanted to walk out of here, and that's not happening."

"John---" Sherlock's tone carries a warning.

John knows he needs to be the sensible one here, but he hates this, hates having to say these things because even though Sherlock is an enthusiastic fan of the truth, forcing him to face it about himself hurts right now. It's obvious in both his attempts to retreat from any conversation about the GBS as well as the smalls tells John has learned to spot. Sherlock does think about these things; it must be when he goes quiet, fidgets, then flings himself into discussing something completely different with a practically desperate and forced enthusiasm.

"We all just want what's best for you," John says, and realizes he has made a mistake. In Sherlock's world, the only _us_ is him and John. As for anyone else: if they're not on his side, they're the enemy.

"Who is this _we_ , then?" Sherlock demands. " _Say it_."

 _Fuck_. "All of us." John desperately hopes that not mentioning Mycroft will limit some of the damage. "Me, Molly, Mrs Hudson---"

"For heaven's sake, John! He _got to you_! He thinks keeping you away is---"

"I'm not his minion! You know perfectly well this is the best solution, even if you don't bloody _like it_! Do you think I liked rehab? I hated it, every minute of it, and I don't think it's going to get any better if I sit around every minute watching you go through all that! I do have some insight into this, you know, even if Mycroft doesn't."

"It would be better for me if you were there," Sherlock says quietly.

John has no arguments left. Even if there was something more that was sensible and logical he could come up with, Sherlock's expression right now would turn those words into feeling like betrayal.

Sherlock has been through so much lately. It's not fair or reasonable to assume he could look at this logically, without emotion clouding up his judgment. Nobody could.

John takes a deep breath. He needs to be the voice of reason, even when he'd want nothing more to take Sherlock back to Baker Street right now.

"I will visit whenever I can, and in a few months, it will be over, and you'll come home."

"Imagine if you'd said that to me when this thing started."

"It's not the same."

"No, you're right. Since I'm no longer at constant risk of expiring, you can all now go back to your bourgeois lives and leave me to sort myself out."

Sherlock is good at this – trying to keep himself from getting upset by upsetting others instead. John stomps down on the anger that threatens to rise and takes Sherlock's comment for what it is – self-pity seeping through. Thankfully, this mood never seems to last long when he isn't left to his own devices.  The physical therapy routines over the past two weeks at the hospital have not given him time to wallow too deeply. All in all, considering his usual impatience and disdain for being instructed, Sherlock has kept himself together quite admirably when it comes to these first weeks of rehabilitation. This phase – accepting how much work there is ahead of them – is always tough, regardless of who the patient is. John isn't all that worried, even though there are signs around that Sherlock may be due for a bit of a rude awakening regarding the slowness of recovery. He seems to be finding so much relief and joy in their changing relationship that it'll help him along.

He is forced to side with Mycroft, because if he doesn't, this whole thing will turn to a power game between the two brothers, which would ruin what little motivation Sherlock might have to make use of what Harwich could offer.

John rises from his chair and sits on the edge of the bed, instead. When emotions are running high, he feels less self-conscious about bridging the physical gap between them. He puts an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and gives his opposite bicep a squeeze. It's a chaste, friendly gesture, nothing that would cause apprehension. He's relieved when Sherlock seems to relax a little. "It's just a few months. I'll visit, Mycroft will visit, and you can complain to him as much as you like. A few months, and this'll all be over."

"Just a few months," Sherlock resignedly confirms.

 

 ––– The End –––

**Author's Note:**

> What happens next? You can [find out right now](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8589025).


End file.
